Behoove

Instinctual subversive rumblings
Ramble on about ambling sufferings
Erroneously within ambers
Pulled away by duty’s calls.

Nevermind,
It was just gas.

But at the helm of seriousness,
Splattered gains grinded in the pits,
Inebriated inside elongated bowels, before
And after it had passed.


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Blindly They’d Follow

Single minded entities
With masochistic inclinations
Laden with sorrows lashed out;
Leashes, held by ownerships.

They pled for destruction
Laid in their wake.

Knowing it’s pain,
They go back running,
Referring to it as naiveté.

They’d amble in the unknown
Rambling about affected pleasures
Within weighted sparsities.

Pulled out identities.


“Well, I hate bad people”
“What makes someone a bad person”
“Well… if they’re masochists..”

Disorientation

Is it possible to fall in love with probabilities,
To fall in love with a soul that’s a maybe,
To fall in love with intangible realities.

Then why is it that I have fallen
For the just barely.

These semblances
Keep resonating inside
Archaic echoes of concentric conceptions
Of discomforting dazes in ecstasies
Where eyes of a deranged criminal cackled
Then cracked in crippling dins of
Dined vehement emanations.

Integrations of cyclical motions
Deduced as fragments of
Kaleidoscopic ignitions.

Still,
With her nonexistent voice,
She urges:
“Push”,
Within exceeded pain thresholds
In jolts of crumbling lulls.

If the Game We Played

So the pain that I’m feeling
Exists inside a portion of me
In the idea of not knowing
If the game we played was reality
A love chased after blindly, a normal ordeal

I don’t know anything fully
As nothing had been revealed.

What would cause a person to lull
And ignore a story where none
Of the sequences were concluded.
Was the suffering in a life of
Living, such burdened conjecture.

Then the idea of a plan made
For the soul to suffer
Sets me on fire.

-Sabs-